


Red-Letter Day

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Collaboration, Illustrated, M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-19
Updated: 2006-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:43:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Dagon shows off his appalling taste in seasonal stationery, and Crowley battles some stiff competition for Aziraphale's affections.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red-Letter Day

**Author's Note:**

> Illustrations by LinnPuzzle
> 
> (Originally written and posted to LJ in 2006.)

Somewhere along the line, Hell must have caught on to the fact that its fourteenth-century Employee Relations Department was lacking. Crowley chalked it up to the change in communication protocol that had rather abruptly occurred in the early twentieth century. Long before Crowley had ever tipped them off with regards to electronic communication, they had come up with an innovation so counter-innovative that they could only _have_ come up with it themselves.  
  
It involved seasonal color-changes of stationery.  
  
Crowley supposed that it might have begun sometime in the nineteenth century, as it seemed to him ridiculously Victorian—or, in other words, something of which Aziraphale would approve. He discounted that theory mostly because he hadn't got up from his extended nap to find his solid oak writing desk littered with a sickly rainbow of envelopes. What he had found there was a pile of ashes and a very stern note from Dagon about not opening his mail, and also a notice that his desk would at this rate become a fire hazard if he didn't clear the papers before Hastur did his quarterly incineration rounds.  
  
But that was all behind him now, Crowley reasoned, as Hell had mostly (if erroneously) got the hang of using electronics for communication. Still, there were a few relics from the dubiously shaded campaign of a century before, and one of them was currently sitting in Crowley's tidy wire-weave in-box. It was a bright, suspiciously cheerful red.  
  
"Bottoms up," said Crowley, and snagged it with his letter-opener.  
  
He liked the sound of ripping paper. It was satisfying in much the same way as stepping on that bubble-filled packaging wrap, or squeezing it between thumb and forefinger. The only difference was that bubble wrap didn't give you paper cuts. Crowley hissed and sucked on the tip of his thumb, scanning the letter for this year's damages.  
  
 _Dear Damned (But Indispensable) Employee_ , it read,  
  
 _We regret to inform you that it's that time of year again. At few other points in the human calendar is it so essential that we continue—nay, increase—our efforts at sowing the seeds of discord and strife amongst mortal souls. Might we add that, in addition to the soul, the heart is a particularly vulnerable target, a weakness which should be exploited to the fullest degree. We need not remind you that fulfilling your Lust quota is key, and keep in mind the variety and expense of commercial goods with which to tempt._  
  
I am no less sick of writing this particular missive than in years previous, so I shall be brief: today is St. Valentine's Day. If you worthless scum don't take advantage of the opportunity, you'll exist to regret it.  
  
Yours sincerely,  
  
Dagon  
Lord of the Files, Master of Madness (Hons.),  
& Under-Duke of the Seventh Torment  
  
Crowley crumpled the letter and tossed it in the bin, thoroughly reminded that if he ever got to the point he was offered Dagon's job, it was bloody well time to quit. Not that Hell had any concept of quitting, but you never knew. If he remembered anything of what he'd learned while on Heaven's payroll, it was that one should always make contingency plans. It was a pity he hadn't made any in the event he should Fall.  
  
At least not till he'd realized Earth _was_ one, and a lucky thing, too.  
  
Outside, the wind picked up just enough to rattle Crowley's office window. He swiveled his chair around and stared at the townhouse across the street, resting his chin on the back of his hand. February wasn't the kindest month in the calendar, but things _did_ start to settle down just a bit temperature-wise. At no time of year was Crowley more grateful that he'd settled in the south. Granted, there was nothing to do up north anyway (although certain recent acquaintances would have told him otherwise).  
  
In the street, a couple strolled into view. They approached the front steps hand in hand.  
  
Crowley swiveled away again, deciding that the best course of action was to start early. Nothing put a crimp in extravagant dinner plans like a bout of severe, lunch-induced indigestion. Those prawns in the grocery bag the girl carried should do the trick.  
  
As an afterthought, Crowley fished the letter out of the bin, re-folded it as best he could, and tucked it into his breast pocket. A few flames never hurt anyone, but they could bring a building down on top of your head, and that, let's face it, _stings_.  
  


* * *

  
  
"Amazing," murmured Aziraphale, gently scraping the vellum with a dental pick.  
  
"What has it got, a cavity?" Crowley asked, leaning over the angel's shoulder. The manuscript was in strikingly good condition; even he could see that. "Enough gold leaf there to fill it in, though, don't you think?"  
  
"Don't breathe on it," Aziraphale warned, reaching back to stay him with one gloved hand. "It's already begun to curl, see? I should have put it straight in the case."  
  
"Instead of pick at it with metal implements? You don't say."  
  
"Very funny," said Aziraphale, and promptly set the pick down. "I was _attempting_ to get a sample of the ink—that is, I was until you barged in here."  
  
"I'm not breathing. What d'you need an ink sample for?" asked Crowley, vaguely interested. The longer he looked at the illuminated page, the more he realized he was looking at something that was very likely irreplaceable. He wondered who Aziraphale had been dealing with this time, and just how black their particular corner of the antiquarian book market was.  
  
"I would simply like confirmation," said Aziraphale. He took a deep breath and snatched up the instrument again, positioning a small piece of tissue paper that Crowley hadn't noticed before. With two light, sharp flicks of his wrist, he tossed the pick aside once more and deftly folded up the square of tissue. He breathed a sigh of relief, rattling the page. "Thanks to you lot, forgers are terribly good at what they do these days."  
  
"At least you're practicing what you preach," muttered Crowley.  
  
Aziraphale huffed, tucking the paper into the breast pocket of his waistcoat.  
  
"If you haven't any useful business to conduct on these premises, then I suggest—"  
  
"Testy, testy," said Crowley, and sat down on the corner of the desk, well clear of the manuscript. He couldn't quite take his eyes off it; the dim lighting of the back room glinted off the gold leaf as enticingly as if it were an entire king's ransom. "I'm interested in what you've got here, and also, I'm bored. Do you mean to tell me that you're going to pass up the opportunity to bore me further?"  
  
A familiar, reluctant kind of smile tugged at the corner of Aziraphale's lips.  
  
"Well, dear boy, if you insist," he said with unconvincing reluctance, sliding the manuscript another six unnecessary inches away from Crowley. "Are you familiar with the dubious origins of today's charming little holiday?"  
  
"Which one of them?" asked Crowley, dryly, folding his arms across his chest.  
  
Aziraphale patted the manuscript with two gloved fingers, his smile broadening.  
  
"The one you're looking at, of course."  
  
Crowley leaned forward and squinted at the page. The big letter, the one with all the gold and swirls and flowers, was discernable as a capital _T_ , but after that, he was slightly lost. He'd got a few missives from Aziraphale over the millennia, and, while the angel's handwriting had changed to suit the times, he'd never had any particular trouble reading it. The style he was looking at reminded him uncomfortably of the single letter he'd gotten toward the end of the fourteenth century—and _that_ , he remembered mostly because of what had been in it. Only the Inquisition had ever been worse.  
  
"It's poetry," said Crowley, dismissively, but with the air of one who was not about to be taken for not knowing what he was talking about. There was a title up at the top that appeared to begin with the word _Here_ , and the lines of text were fairly short.  
  
"Yes," said Aziraphale, as if he was trying to hide the faint surprise in his voice, "it's poetry, but have you any idea _whose_ poetry?"  
  
"That insufferable git we met on the road to Canterbury?" he guessed, taking a wild stab. "He seemed to think he had quite a career, and didn't you keep in touch with him for a bit? Take out those contracts that he wasn't handing to some hack he worked with in…oh, where was it, the Customs House?"  
  
Aziraphale blushed, quickly flipping some pages.  
  
"Now, I wouldn't be so harsh on him," he said, scanning the swirls and flourishes as if looking for something. "I couldn't possibly take the higher-paying jobs, what when people really _needed_ that sort of income. Besides, I always had more of a soft spot for that Langland chap—oh, Gower as well. Lovely work, all three of them."  
  
"Are you trying to tell me that whatsisname—" Crowley closed his eyes and scanned nearly six hundred years' worth of faces, searching for the man and a name to match "—Geoffrey Chaucer invented Valentine's Day?"  
  
"Sort of," Aziraphale said, absently, closing the manuscript. "It was a common belief during the Middle Ages that the fourteenth of February—that is, St. Valentine's Day—was the precise time of year at which birds, er, choose their mates."  
  
"I was looking at that," said Crowley, irritated. "Where's the part about birds getting buggered?"  
  
Aziraphale rubbed his forehead with one hand, re-opening the manuscript with the other.  
  
"It's not that…specific. No offense, dear boy, but I severely doubt you can read it."  
  
"I was doing a fair job till your closed it." Crowley stood up and leaned over Aziraphale's shoulder again, squinting. "'Here begyr—beg _yn_ eth the parle—parlement? Of foul—'"  
  
" _Fowls_ ," Aziraphale corrected him, and snapped the manuscript shut. "I think that's quite enough for today. I had better put it away in the case and get this—" he patted his breast pocket "—shipped off to the Museum, hadn't I?"  
  
"They'll take it off you," said Crowley, feeling a bit vindictive. "Who copied it, you or the hack?"  
  
"Who do you _think_?" sniffed Aziraphale, carrying it imperiously over to the corner case that housed most of the Bibles. "I'm not a vanity collector, you know."  
  
"Tell that to Bilton and Scaggs," said Crowley, who prided himself on having got at least one detail of Aziraphale's maddening bibliophilia down pat, and left the shop.  
  
The angel _loved_ those books, but there was nothing he could do to ruin a one-sided relationship.  
  


* * *

  
  
If Crowley had ever loved London, which he'd certainly never admit to, it was because it could be a blessedly unforgiving place when you wanted nothing more than to be alone. It was no use going to the parks—not any of them—because every happy couple in the city would be strolling through every one of them. Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets and trudged through Trafalgar Square. A pair of young French tourists were posing under Nelson, kissing, while someone else took a picture. Crowley surreptitiously ruined the film. They had no business idolizing the abomination anyway.  
  
The truth was, he was all dressed up and had nowhere to go. He'd gone to pester Aziraphale with intent to tempt him to lunch. Surely the Ritz would have been full of dining lovers, dozens of prime targets for petty quarrels and more creative cases of indigestion. He'd even had half a mind to wreak some havoc in the kitchens, but it would have meant sacrificing the quality of his own meal.  
  
Some risks weren't worth taking, and the very thought sickened him.  
  
Fine, then. He wouldn't go to the Ritz. He'd find somewhere else to make people miserable; he was halfway to Covent Garden and he hadn't even managed to ruin another photo shoot. Vaguely, he wondered how serious Dagon was going to be about his empty threats this year. Minor acts of meddling were the easiest and had the farthest-reaching effects (as the domino falls), but major acts of intervention, he'd never been good at.  
  
Crowley wondered if perhaps he ought to consider quitting after all. Perhaps it was high time to find some stationery in a color that Dagon hadn't ever thought of and write his letter of resignation. He got a little thrill out of making people grumpy, and no mistake, but that was—he hated to be honest—all he'd ever really got out of it in the first place.  
  
Temptation, now, that was his business: irritating, mass-produced, smugness-inducing temptations that gave him not just a little thrill, but a cut of the proceeds besides. Temptations like dragging Aziraphale all over London for expensive lunches and expeditions to Sainsbury's and into other ridiculously-priced bookshops where he _always_ spent too much.  
  
Crowley spotted the nearest wine bar from five hundred yards off and made a beeline.  
  
The place had a few outdoor tables prematurely placed out in front of the picture window. He sat down heavily, arms folded across his chest until, through both sunglasses and window glass, he managed to glare down the newest and most frazzled member of the staff. The young man brought him a menu and profuse apologies.  
  
"White," said Crowley, waving the menu away.  
  
The young man stammered.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Your house white, whatever it is."  
  
"Sir, we—we're a wine bar. It's all house, if you like."  
  
Crowley was getting impatient.  
  
"Then I'll have it all."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Whatever's at the bottom, I don't care. A bottle."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
What was at the bottom, as it turned out, was a very fine zinfandel that went down all too easily. He swilled the stuff in his glass and leaned forward to squint at the label, chin resting heavily on the heel of his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, it was difficult not to notice what was going on at the tables inside. It was laughter, and pleasant, and _warm_. Either that or there was something wrong with his jacket.  
  


  
  
After some digging, cursing, and a lot of splashed wine, the trouble turned out to be Dagon's letter burning a hole in his pocket—quite literally. He put out the smoldering thing with a glance and crushed it in his fist, letting his hand drop to the table. He certainly wasn't solving any problems where he was, and he wasn't causing any, either.  
  
There was only so much he could do, drinking on an empty stomach.  
  
Gently, the wind buffeted the awning, bringing raindrops with it.  
  


* * *

  
  
Crowley returned to the bookshop as noisily as he'd left it, making sure the door bounced a few times behind him. Sneaking up obviously hadn't worked: Aziraphale was perfectly capable of getting lost in his reading, but when the white gloves and dental atrocities were out, his senses went on otherworldly hyperdrive. He'd known Crowley was there on the initial approach before Crowley had even opened the door. No use in subtlety.  
  
"Would you try not to do that?" Aziraphale's voice drifted out from the back room, somewhat distracted. Crowley wondered if the contraband was locked up again.  
  
"Do what?"  
  
"Slam the door. I don't know how many times I have to tell you."  
  
"You know me," said Crowley, taking his time. "In one ear, out the other."  
  
"Are you staying for tea or not? I've only made enough for myself, but I haven't got it poured yet. If you're going to stay, speak now or forever hold your peace."  
  
"I hadn't got any in the first place," Crowley reminded him. "Not in the contract."  
  
" _Tea_?" asked Aziraphale, by now rather aggravated.  
  
"Yes," said Crowley, and realized he was fiddling too much with his pocket.  
  
"Sugar?" Aziraphale's voice was closer now. Crowley was just outside the kitchenette.  
  
"Er. Yeah. Some."  
  
"My dear, that's not helpful."  
  
Crowley sighed. "Yes, fine. Two."  
  
He got to the table before Aziraphale did, which was indeed clear of all bibliophilic apparatus. A glance told him that the new distraction was safely stowed on the top shelf of the climate-controlled cupboard (miracled, of course—no fancy electronics here). It took several moments of squinting at the tablecloth before he got his fingers to leave the button alone. Best leave the pocket open; the bloody thing would wrinkle, or worse.  
  
Aziraphale burst in with an overloaded tray, giving Crowley a look that suggested he hadn't done so well in pretending he hadn't almost jumped out of his skin. Coupled with the fact that this was, at least for them, no more a physical impossibility than traveling via phone line, Aziraphale, after the shock, looked most relieved indeed. He set down the tray, relief fading to a frown.  
  
"They haven't got Dagon on your case again this year, I hope?"  
  
"In vain," said Crowley, grabbing a teacup before Aziraphale could tell him which was his. "All in vain." He drained the tea and concluded it wouldn't have made much difference; if somebody told Aziraphale two sugars, he'd take the liberty and make it four.  
  
"You're having a cheerful day of it, aren't you?" Aziraphale took the other cup and gave Crowley a curiously sympathetic look.  
  
Hands shaking, Crowley drank down the rest, hoping it counted for a _yes_.  
  
"Not much different here, to be honest," said Aziraphale, wryly, and took a sip.  
  
Crowley almost dropped the teacup.  
  
"What, your old chums didn't leave you any moldy Valentines tucked in those pages?"  
  
Aziraphale just blinked, as if that was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard.  
  
"Right, then," said Crowley, and started fiddling with the button again. "I'm sure you'll get a kick out of what color Dagon's got this year, you'll never believe—"  
  
The envelope didn't pull out easily on account of Crowley's jittery fingers, but he could tell that Aziraphale had no idea what he was actually being handed and was going to be completely and utterly flabbergasted by the time he got the envelope open.  
  
Crowley sat back, smiling, and listened to the rain.  
  



End file.
